“She wasn’t feeling well, so I looked after her a little bit.”
“She was feeling fine,” I said. “She was faking.”
Joe nodded. “Probably, yeah. But I did get the feeling like she just needed somebody.”
“Well, she can’t have you,” I said.
Joe tilted his head. “She can’t?”
“Trust me on this,” I said. “That girl is bad news.”
“Did you wait here, dripping wet, in the hallway to tell me that?” Joe asked.
“I waited here in the hallway,” I answered, glad to have a legitimate no, “because the lock to this door is broken. Again.”
Joe frowned, and then he took it all in—me shivering, Peanut shivering, the door handle with its new shoe-dents.
“Oh god, you’re freezing,” he said then, reaching out to touch my cheek.
“You’re just now noticing that? My teeth have been chattering this whole time.”
“Did you call Mr. Kim?”
“Three messages. And three texts.”
“Okay then,” Joe said, crooking his arm around my shoulders and steering me toward his door. “Come on.”
* * *
JOE’S APARTMENT WAS big. And penthouse-fancy. And top of the line: Viking range. Glass fridge. It made my hovel look even more hovelly.
But also? The place was totally empty.
By empty, I mean there was no furniture. At all.
Except for a couple of barstools at the island and a mattress on the floor in the master bedroom … nothing.
I saw it when Joe steered me into the master bathroom so I could take a hot shower.
“What about Peanut?” I asked.
Joe handed me a towel. “I’ll get him with the blow-dryer.”
“Be careful,” I said. “He doesn’t like men.”
“He likes me,” Joe said.
“You don’t have a sofa, but you have a blow-dryer?” I said. That floppy hair of Joe’s definitely couldn’t require much maintenance.
But Joe was already gone.
While I showered—and can I just say that his shower was far, far superior to mine, so I stayed in way too long—Joe accomplished many things. He left a T-shirt, some heather-gray sweatpants, a big plaid bathrobe, and some oversize socks that fit like Christmas stockings folded by the door for me. He blow-dried Peanut, as promised, and then talked him into eating a few pieces of cold rotisserie chicken. He left a note on the rooftop door for Mr. Kim to call me or come by Joe’s place with any info on the lock. And he ordered takeout from an Italian place nearby that I just happened to love.
Pretty impressive, all in all.
When I emerged at last all layered up with my hair wrapped in a fluffy white towel, I was feeling a lot better.
The food had already arrived, and he was unpacking the bag at the island in his empty kitchen.
“Thank you for your help,” I said as I approached.
Joe looked up at the sound of my voice and then stilled at the sight of me.
Whatever expression he was making that I couldn’t see, I couldn’t read it, either.
“Don’t laugh,” I said, tightening his robe around me.
“I’m not laughing.”
“Don’t stare, either.”
“I’m not staring.”
“Yes you are.”
Joe dropped his head to look down.
I couldn’t help but feel annoyed. I bet his last glimpse of Parker’s attire had been a lace teddy. “This is the best I can do with myself right now, okay?”
“No,” he said, like I was misunderstanding. “You look—”
“I look what?”
“You look … cozy.”
I felt an unexpected ping of disappointment at that. But what had I been hoping for, exactly? “Lovely”？ “Ravishing in a man’s plaid bathrobe”？ “So much better than your stepsister”？
The man was serving me linguine fra diavolo right now. Maybe I could cut him a break.
I took the emotional high road. “Thank you for rescuing me.”
“You’re not rescued yet,” Joe said—and at that, I checked my texts for anything from Mr. Kim.
Nothing.
Fine. Eat first, worry later.
I glanced over to see if I should make a plate of linguine for Peanut, but he was fast asleep, a little pile of blow-dried fur.
“So,” I said, settling onto a kitchen stool and gesturing around at this empty warehouse of an apartment. “What’s the story here?”
“What story?”
I looked around again. “You know you don’t have any furniture, right?”